Bespoke
by moonlighten
Summary: Alasdair and Francis' upcoming wedding fills Michael with dread. (Human AU; Background Scotland/France.) One-shot, complete.


Not even six months ago, Francis was the type of man who practically broke into a rash whenever the subject of marriage came up.

The whole concept was 'stifling', 'outdated', or, more often than not, 'too horrific to even contemplate'. 'Shackles' were mentioned often, and strictly in the pejorative sense.

His attitude had performed a swift about turn from the moment he was proposed to, however.

Now the institution was proclaimed to be 'transcendental', 'romantic', 'the entwining of two hearts so they can beat as one', and a man's wedding day the very pinnacle of his life.

He had thrown himself into organising his own with all the same fervour and obsession with detail he demonstrated when it came to the manor's restoration.

Those long hours he had until very recently devoted to tracking down period-appropriate wallpaper patterns and the very best antique furniture restorers are now filled with researching cakes, table settings, and photographers.

Michael's sure that, for his own part, Alasdair would be happy with whatever Francis thought best – from a quick stop at the register office up to some grand (but thrifty) extravaganza with half of Chester in attendance – but that has been deemed an unacceptable standpoint.

In the spirit of building the foundations of future marital harmony, Francis has apparently concluded that every last decision about the wedding should be a joint one, and so Alasdair is confronted with endless questions about fabric and flowers and music selections at regular intervals throughout the day.

From the hunted look that descends upon his face whenever he's asked to make such decisions, it seems clear that Alasdair not only has no opinion on such matters but is actively afraid of giving the wrong one. Given the fierce argument that had ensued a couple of nights ago concerning his inconsistency on the matter of orchids and their suitability for centrepieces, Michael can hardly blame him.

He has started accepting more hours at the pub, inventing ever-more outlandish reasons that he absolutely has to pop around to Dylan and Llewellyn's or, whenever he feels especially hounded, simply vanishing for hours on end.

The regularity of such disappearances and the furtive skill with which Alasdair executes them would lead Michael to imagine an affair might be taking place if they involved anyone other than his eldest brother. As they do, however, his main concern is that Alasdair's movements at such times are so difficult to track that it's impossible for Michael to follow him and demand to be taken along, too.

So, all too often recently, Michael has found himself abandoned; his car-less, (near-)friendless state rendering escape an impossibility. He can't even hide since Francis' shrewd eye had picked out all of his old boltholes within weeks of moving into the manor, and thus he finds himself the only available ear on offer most evenings, held captive by Francis' need to plan his big day in the most excruciating detail imaginable.

Tonight, Alasdair had invented an exploding toilet at Dylan's to flee to after his planned shift at the pub fell through, and Michael tried to follow his lead with a fabricated project that he desperately needed to get finished for school the next day.

As partisan as ever, Dylan had backed up Alasdair's lie, but Michael was left alone and unsupported, floundering so much in the face of the probing questions Francis shot at him about his supposed work that he eventually had to concede defeat and admit that he'd made it all up.

He'd managed to give Francis the slip for a while even afterwards by running like the wind the moment Francis' back was turned and hiding out in the attic behind a pile of old paintings so mouldered and dusty he felt sure that Francis wouldn't dare to approach them, never mind risk touching any.

Eventually, his stomach had turned traitor: rumbling and so achingly empty that he contemplated eating his own limbs in desperation in order to fill it. After a little thought, though, he reluctantly conceded that resorting to auto-cannabalism may be a _slightly_ excessive way to avoid the possibility of having to listen to Francis talk about hats for an hour or so.

If he's quiet and careful about it, he can probably dash into the kitchen and make off with a plateful of leftovers from the fridge quickly enough that Francis will never be any the wiser.

Unfortunately, although he sneaks from shadow to shadow, sidesteps every creaky floorboard en route, and keeps a wary eye out for any sign of movement at all times, somehow Francis is still standing in the kitchen when he eases himself carefully around the door, a plate of freshly-baked brownies in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other.

The brownies don't taste as good as they usually do, being soured with the bitter taste of defeat. Michael eats the whole plateful, anyway.

After he's finished the last, Francis first gives him a damp cloth to wipe his hands and then, once they're crumb-free, some swatches of various different patterns of tartan.

"You're not thinking about having a tartan suit made, are you?" Michael asks, equal parts shocked and appalled. He might not know much about fashion or the like, but he's fairly sure such a thing would be hideous to behold and thus something Francis would fight against having to wear unto his dying breath.

Francis laughs uproariously, as though he finds the whole idea ridiculous, which sets Michael's mind at ease for the brief moment before he adds, "No, I thought you and your brothers should wear kilts for the wedding."

"Oh," Michael says, nonplussed. "We're not actually Scottish, you know, so I don't think we'd be allowed to. There's probably some sort of rule about it."

It's only supposition, and Michael has no idea what the punishment for any infractions of it might be – he imagines it might be along the lines of being mocked by actual Scottish people, and then perhaps getting called Sassenach for good measure – but anything to dissuade Francis seems like a good idea. The thought of his brothers wandering around only one stiff breeze away from revealing more of themselves than he'd ever wish to see is a horrifying one.

"Maybe not," Francis concedes, "but Aly and Caitlin's father is, isn't he? After a fashion, anyway. And I think the Ramsey tartan is quite fetching."

Michael looks down at the piece of red and black fabric Francis points to. "It's all right," he admits, "but trousers would still be better. Aly wouldn't go for it, in any case. I've never even seen him wearing shorts."

"I'm sure he could be persuaded," Francis says, eyes thoughtful and lips curving into a lazy smile.

Seeing as though Alasdair has been 'persuaded' – noisily and at length; Michael had resorted to shoving cotton wool in his ears because even the length of a corridor and two pillows hadn't been enough to block out the sound of Francis' arm-twisting at work – into both a string quartet and firework display in recent days, Michael has no doubts Francis will succeed on this score too, in time.

Even if it's too late for Alasdair, Michael can at least try and save Dylan, Arthur and himself the indignity.

"Dylan and Art's dad wasn't Scottish, though," he says.

"There are Welsh tartans, too," Francis says smoothly, gesturing towards the blue and red patterned swatch. "That is the Evans one, I believe."

Michael feels a fleeting moment of pity for his brothers, but mingled all the same with relief, because he, at least, remains safe on both counts.

"Well, I still can't wear one can I? The Kirklands have been nothing but English since the… The Civil War or something."

He's not sure if it was the English Civil War, American Civil War or some other war entirely that he has never learnt about at school. Arthur had told him which one it was years ago, but the only part he remembers is the 'Civil'.

"But your father—"

"I don't have a father," Michael cuts in, only realising what a ludicrous thing it is to say when Francis looks slightly puzzled at the interjection. "Well, obviously I do," he amends quickly. "I mean, Mum didn't create me by parthenogenesis, but I wouldn't want to wear something that has any connection with that bastard. I don't care if it's the best fucking tartan in the world, I won't do it."

Francis looks instantly contrite. "Of course not. Forget I mentioned it," he says, hooking an arm around Michael's shoulders and pulling him against his side briefly. "Although, there are universal tartans, you know; ones that anyone can wear." He draws Michael's attention to yet another swatch. "The Black Watch, for example."

He's absolutely relentless. Michael has to wonder how Alasdair ever manages to stand his ground about anything at all, because it can't even have been five minutes, and his own defences feel to be almost entirely worn down.

"I don't have the legs for a kilt," he says, rallying weakly.

"Nonsense," Francis says, shaking his head. "And even if that were true, you still have plenty of time to work on muscle definition, if that's what's worrying you."

Michael was thinking more of the fact that they're bony and blindingly white, but he's sure if he mentions that, Francis will simply prescribe gym visits and sunbeds and he'll still be showing off his misshapen knees come summer.

It feels as though he's simply prolonging the inevitable, so he finally just gives in and concedes, "I guess I could live with a kilt."  
-

* * *

-  
No matter what he told Francis to shut him up, the longer Michael thinks about the kilt situation, the more it dismays him, especially once he remembers Oliver will be at the wedding and liable to give him shit about it for the rest of their lives, if not longer.

He knows his limitations, and thus how fruitless attempting to talk sense into Francis again would be, so he decides to take a slightly more circuitous route towards achieving his goal.

"You don't really want to wear a kilt, do you?" he therefore asks Alasdair when he finally manages to catch him alone several days later, whilst he's on one of his increasingly fleeting visits back to the manor, grabbing lunch between shifts.

Alasdair takes a huge bite out of his ham and cheese sandwich, chews contemplatively for a moment, and then shrugs. "I look like a complete twat in suits, anyway, so I can't imagine it could be any worse. And, besides, it's traditional, isn't it?"

"If you're in Scotland, maybe," Michael says, rolling his eyes in frustration. "Fucking hell, you're about the least Scottish person I know. You don't even like shortbread!"

Alasdair chuckles. "That's probably not a prerequisite. Doubt anyone'll throw me out of the Scottish club if they find out."

"But if you wear one, I'll have to wear one, too. Francis says I'll mess up the 'balance' of the wedding photos if I don't."

"Sorry, Mikey," Alasdair says, not sounding particularly contrite. "Look, it's only for a day, and I'm sure he won't mind you putting trousers on for the evening do, if it'll make you more comfortable. Besides…"

He leaves the word hanging isolated for a moment whilst he polishes off the rest of his sandwich, and then quietly says, "Me and Francis got in touch with my dad a couple of weeks ago, invited him to the wedding, and he sounded as though he might actually come. He's really into all that family tree, ancestry crap, so I bet he'd be pleased to see me in a kilt."

Personally, Michael can't understand why Alasdair would give two shits about the opinion of some bloke he's met exactly twice in his life, whether he shares genes with him or not, but he can't argue against it, either. If his own father was just the sort of wanker who ran halfway across the world the moment he was expected to start changing a nappy or two instead of the sort of wanker who faked his own death after bankrupting his family, then maybe he might consider wearing a kilt for him, too, if he were in Alasdair's place.

With Francis' will and the faint chance of a sliver of paternal approval combining forces against him, Michael doubts he'll be able to win Alasdair to his cause.

He knew it was a long shot going in, anyway, and he has other cards up his sleeve, so he doesn't press the point further.  
-

* * *

-  
"If you, me and Dylan wear suits, then it won't ruin the balance of anything, will it? It'll be a different sort of balance, and make Aly'll stand out more. Francis would love that, surely."

Michael really should have gone to Arthur first with his proposition, because he not only has the same shameful legs as Michael's own – the sort that really should be kept under wraps for the public good – but he appears to take great pleasure in thwarting any of Francis' desires it is within his power to thwart, because—

"I don't know, I've started to warm up to the idea of a kilt," Arthur says, dealing Michael's hopes a mortal blow. "There's something very traditional about them."

The similarity of his answer to Alasdair's births the idea that maybe the two of them may have been colluding together behind Michael's back. It's doomed to be short-lived, however, as Arthur's contrariness where Alasdair's concerned is even more deeply-rooted than it is with Francis.

"There's nothing traditional about fucking Welsh tartan," Michael says, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. "They just made them up so they can flog keyrings and shite like that to people."

"Maybe so," Arthur says, leaping up from his seat when a loud click echoing through the living room announces his kettle has come to the boil, "but the whole concept of it did get me thinking about the Welsh side of my ancestry, and even with the most cursory of research, I've discovered some very interesting things about—"

Whatever obscure nuggets of historical miscellany Arthur has managed to dig up about the Evanses are mercifully drowned out by the rattle of crockery and spoons as he makes their tea in the kitchen, by the time he returns, all he has left to offer alongside Michael's cup is: "It's made me feel more connected to that side of the family than I ever have, and the kilt seems like a nice tribute to them, and my father."

Fathers again. Michael really has no rebuttal to them, so he just lifts a chocolate digestive off the plate Arthur had already set out, and then gloomily dunks it into his tea. He suspects he's going to have no more luck with Arthur than he had with Alasdair.

"Besides," Arthur says, settling himself down on the sofa next to Michael with a contented-sounding sigh, "the Scottish kilt in its present form is not all that traditional itself. The family tartans you see nowadays were a nineteenth century invention, really…"

Michael hurriedly grabs himself a few more biscuits; if the slow, considered tone of Arthur's voice is anything to go by, he's about to be on the receiving end of a lengthy lecture about the history of tartan, so he'll likely need the sustenance.  
-

* * *

-  
Dylan, Michael's last, best hope, unfortunately seems to have been infected by a sudden burst of Celtic pride like Alasdair and Arthur before him.

"I admit, I did have the same misgivings as you at first," he says as he places a heaped plate of reheated lasagne and homemade chips onto his dining room table in front of Michael. "But I eventually came round to the idea."

Even though Michael has grown used to far better-prepared meals than Dylan's lasagne since Francis' arrival at the manor, the familiar, hearty smell of it makes his mouth water, particularly as it touches on far more deeply-ingrained memories of the days when the pretty much the only decent food he'd get to eat would be during these weekly visits to his brother's house.

He takes the edge off his hunger by eating a few forkfuls before continuing with: "What changed your mind, then? I've given it a lot of thought, and still think it's a fucking awful idea."

"Well, I borrowed a kilt from someone at work, just to see how it looked on. Then I modelled it for Llew, and…"

Dylan's words trail away into silence as the colour rises in his cheeks. Michael wishes he'd never asked. He busies himself with his lasagne again in an attempt to give Dylan a moment alone with his embarrassment to work through it so they can both continue on afterwards in the shared pretence that it never happened.

Dylan uses the time to reach across the table and fiddle with the salt and pepper shakers – picking one up and then the other, placing first one in front of the other, and then side by side – clear his throat, but not spend a single second reflecting on his mistake, apparently, because when the moment ends he says, "He seemed to think it suited me very well, and he couldn't—"

"Fucking hell, Dyl," Michael says, nearly choking on a chip in his haste to interrupt his brother, "I'd already inferred that, you really don't need to elaborate."

Dylan quickly springs forth with a glass of water and apologies, and pats Michael's back sympathetically until his coughing subsides enough that he can wheeze out, "So what you're telling me is the best I can hope for is that maybe there's some girl at the wedding who has the same weird kilt-fetish as your boyfriend?"

"That wasn't exactly the point I was trying to make," Dylan says, sounding a little prim and likely offended on Llewellyn's behalf. "What I meant was that you can't make a judgement before you've even tried one on. You might look very smart."

"Smart?" If that had been the conclusion Dylan had been intending for him to reach, his choice of anecdote was definitely misjudged. "Okay."

"Look, Michael," Dylan's hand shifts to Michael's shoulder and curves around it, squeezing gently, "more than likely, we'll all look like complete idiots, but if it'll make Aly happy, we can grit our teeth and bear it for a few hours, right?"

Fathers might have been invoked, tartan wielded, and embarrassment inflicted, but that's the first argument Michael's heard that even tempts him towards changing his mind.

"I'll think about it," he says, because he doesn't want Dylan to think he's so easily swayed by what is, at the end of the day, a shameless play on mawkish sentiment.

He'll likely tell Alasdair, 'yes,' as soon as he gets home to the manor, regardless, but that's something no-one else needs to know.


End file.
